Tag Archives: Rev Todd R Lattig

Devotional, Holy Week Series, Lent, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 20: The Altar of Resurrection (Easter Sunday)

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By Rev. Todd R. Lattig[i]

Read Mark 16:1–8

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“I will not die; instead, I will live to tell what the LORD has done.” (Psalm 118:17 NLT)

Altars reveal what we worship. Some are obvious—raised platforms of stone and flame. Others are quieter, constructed in systems, reputations, loyalties, and assumptions. Lent is a season of holy examination. It calls us to look closely at what we have built, what we defend, and what we trust. In this series, we conduct an audit—not of budgets or buildings, but of allegiances. Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

A large rectangular stone altar sits centered in a modern open-air structure, visibly cracked down the middle. The surface is bare, with no cloth or objects. In the distance, a muted city skyline rises under an overcast sky. The atmosphere is subdued, emphasizing fracture, exposure, and the instability of what once appeared solid.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Altar of Resurrection” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

It begins in the quiet aftermath of certainty. The stone has been set. The tomb has been sealed. The system has done its work, and everything appears exactly as it should be. Death has the final word—or so it seems.

Some women come to the tomb carrying spices, not expectation. They are not looking for resurrection, but preparing for burial. Even now, they are moving within the logic of what has already been decided.

And then everything breaks.

The stone is already rolled away. The body is not where it should be. A message is given—clear, direct, impossible to misunderstand. He is not here. He has been raised. And yet, the response is not triumph. It is fear.

They said nothing… because they were afraid.

This is where Mark ends. No appearances. No resolution. No restored certainty. Just an empty tomb, a message that disrupts everything, and witnesses who cannot yet bring themselves to speak.

Because resurrection does not arrive as comfort. It arrives as disruption.

It breaks the certainty that death had secured. It refuses the finality that systems had enforced. It does not fit within expectation, control, or explanation. It does not settle neatly into belief. It unsettles it.

The altar was set. The stone was sealed. And still… it did not hold.

This is the reversal of everything that came before. On Friday, violence was justified through process. On Saturday, certainty settled through silence. And on Sunday, both are undone—not through force, not through argument, but through something no system could anticipate or contain.

Life where death had been declared final. And yet, even here, the story does not resolve cleanly.

Because the first witnesses do not proclaim it. They do not run forward with clarity and conviction. They run in fear, carrying the weight of something they do not yet understand. The truth has been revealed, but it has not yet been integrated.

And if we are honest, we recognize this too.

We want resurrection to feel like certainty restored. We want clarity, assurance, and resolution. We want something we can name, explain, and hold onto without tension.

But that is not how Mark tells it.

Resurrection does not erase mystery. It deepens it. It does not give control back. It removes it. It does not answer every question. It creates new ones.

And it asks something of us.

Not immediate understanding. Not perfect belief. Not even certainty.

Presence.

Because the question Easter leaves us with is not simply whether Christ is risen. It is what we will do in response to a truth that disrupts everything we thought was final.

The women ran. They said nothing, because they were afraid. And the story does not tell us what happens next.

Which means the silence is not the end. It is the space where we are now standing.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Resurrection does not restore certainty—it disrupts it.

PRAYER
God, meet us in the places where resurrection unsettles more than it comforts. When we are faced with what we do not understand, give us courage to remain present. When fear holds our voice, stay with us in the silence. And when new life breaks through what we thought was final, lead us forward—not with certainty, but with trust. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Holy Week Series, Lent, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 19: The Altar of Certainty (Holy Saturday)

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Read Matthew 27:57–66

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“You have taken away my companions and loved ones. Darkness is my closest friend.” (Psalm 88:18 NLT)

Altars reveal what we worship. Some are obvious—raised platforms of stone and flame. Others are quieter, constructed in systems, reputations, loyalties, and assumptions. Lent is a season of holy examination. It calls us to look closely at what we have built, what we defend, and what we trust. In this series, we conduct an audit—not of budgets or buildings, but of allegiances. Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

A cracked stone altar sits centered in a modern open-air structure, with a distant city skyline in the background. The lighting is muted and overcast, and the fracture running through the altar draws focus, suggesting broken foundations and the exposure of what has been built.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Altar of Certainty” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 19: The Altar of Certainty. Holy Saturday is quiet. Not peaceful, not resolved—just quiet. It is the kind of quiet that settles in after something has ended, when there is nothing left to do and nowhere left to go. It is the kind of quiet that feels final.

Jesus is in the tomb. The stone is set. The work of Friday appears complete.

And the disciples? They are nowhere to be found. The ones who followed, who heard, who said they would stay—none of them are at the tomb. They may be questioning what has happened—despite being given the explanations by Christ—but they are not standing watch. They are not resisting the finality of it.

They may not be at the tomb… but the tomb is where they are stuck.

Not out of malice or indifference, but out of fear, grief, and disorientation. It is a deeply human response—and yet, it leaves something behind. It leaves a vacuum.

Because while they are absent, the system is not.

The authorities return to Pilate, not to revisit the decision, but to reinforce it. They remember what others have forgotten. They anticipate what others no longer expect. They ask for the tomb to be secured—not because they believe, but because they want certainty.

So the stone is sealed. A guard is posted. The outcome is protected. What was done on Friday is now made official on Saturday.

The tomb wasn’t just sealed by authorities. It was left unchallenged by everyone else.

And in that absence, certainty settles in. Not because it has been proven, and not because it is true, but because no one remains to question it. Sometimes certainty does not need to be established. It only needs to be left alone.

This is the quieter danger—not violence, not confrontation, not even deception, but the slow, steady acceptance of what appears final.

And if we are honest, we know this space. The moments after the decision has been made, after the outcome has been declared, when speaking up feels pointless and hope feels unrealistic. When stepping forward feels too costly, we step back. We go quiet. We tell ourselves there is nothing left to do.

And in that silence, things settle that were never meant to.

Holy Saturday is not just about what was done to Jesus. It is about what happens when those who know the story go still—when truth is not denied, but simply not spoken, and when presence gives way to absence.

Not because people stopped caring. But because they stopped showing up. And in that space, the altar of certainty takes hold.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Certainty often settles where truth is left unspoken.

PRAYER
God, meet us in the quiet places where we have stepped back and gone silent. In our fear, our grief, and our uncertainty, draw us near again. Give us courage to remain present when it would be easier to disappear, and to trust that even in silence, You are still at work. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Holy Week Series, Lent, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 18: The Altar of Violence (Good Friday)

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Read Luke 23:13-25

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“In this way, he disarmed the spiritual rulers and authorities. He shamed them publicly by his victory over them on the cross.” (Colossians 2:15 NLT)

Altars reveal what we worship. Some are obvious—raised platforms of stone and flame. Others are quieter, constructed in systems, reputations, loyalties, and assumptions. Lent is a season of holy examination. It calls us to look closely at what we have built, what we defend, and what we trust. In this series, we conduct an audit—not of budgets or buildings, but of allegiances. Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

A cracked stone altar sits centered in a modern open-air structure with a distant city skyline beyond. Overlaid text reads “Altar Audit: A New Lenten Devotion Series” and “The Altar of Violence,” reinforcing the theme of broken foundations and examined allegiances.
Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The Altar of Violence” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 18: The Altar of Violence. Good Friday doesn’t begin with chaos. It begins with a moment that almost feels controlled—measured, even reasonable. Leaders are gathered. Questions are asked. A decision is forming. If you didn’t know the subplot or how the story ends, you might mistake what is happening for justice at work.

But something is off.

Religious leaders want Jesus gone. Political authority does not find a charge that holds. The crowd is stirred, agitated, insistent. And yet, despite all of that tension, what unfolds is not chaos—it is process. Charges are brought, hearings are held, decisions are made in the open, and responsibility is spread so thin that no single person has to carry it.This is not simply the story of a crucifixion. This is violence justified through process—ordered, structured, and made to appear necessary. No one owns it, and yet everyone enables it.

Pilate stands at the center of it, not as a confused bystander (as the Gospel of John often presents him), but as a governor who understands exactly what is happening. Historically, he was known for brutality, not hesitation. This is not a moment of moral paralysis. It is a moment of political calculation. He does not need Jesus to be guilty. He needs the situation to be resolved. Order must be maintained. Unrest must be avoided. Position must be protected.

So the process unfolds. Questions are asked. Options are presented. The crowd is given a voice. And in the end, the outcome aligns exactly with what the system requires. Pilate does not fail to stop the violence—he authorizes it. What appears to be reluctance is not innocence. It is optics.

And that is what makes this moment so dangerous—not just then, but now.

Because violence rarely begins with hatred. It begins with permission. It becomes acceptable when it is legal, when it follows procedure, when it is demanded loudly enough, and when it serves a purpose that feels necessary. It becomes acceptable when the alternative feels too costly, and when truth is acknowledged… and then quietly set aside.

Jesus is not executed because the truth is unclear. Jesus is executed because the outcome has already been decided. The truth was never the point. Control was.

Religion identifies the threat, political power structures the solution, and the crowd supplies the momentum. Together, they create something none of them would fully claim on their own—a collaboration. Not a rogue act, not a misunderstanding, not a tragedy alone, but a system doing exactly what it was designed to do.

And if we are honest, that pattern has not disappeared. Harm is still justified as necessary. Decisions are still made “for stability.” Truth is still recognized in private and ignored in public. Systems still protect themselves first, and responsibility is still diffused until no one feels accountable for what is done.

And most often, no one stands up and says, “This is wrong, and I will stop it.” Instead, we hear familiar echoes: “I wash my hands.” “Give them what they want.” “It’s better this way.”

No one has to hate for violence to happen. They only have to allow it.

Good Friday does not just reveal what was done to Jesus. It reveals how easily a world—any world—can participate in harm while believing it is simply doing what must be done. And in that revelation, the altar stands before us—not in ancient Jerusalem, but here.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Violence is most dangerous when it looks justified.

PRAYER
God, expose the places where we mistake process for righteousness and control for justice. Give us the courage to recognize truth, and the strength not to turn away from it when it costs us something. Where we are tempted to remain silent, speak through us. Where we are complicit, confront us. Lead us away from every altar that demands harm and toward the way of Christ. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Lent, Series

ALTAR AUDIT, Part 10: The Altar of Preference

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Read Luke 6:20-26

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“Listen to me, dear brothers and sisters. Hasn’t God chosen the poor in this world to be rich in faith? Aren’t they the ones who will inherit the Kingdom he promised to those who love him?” (James 2:5 NLT)

Altars reveal what we worship. Some are obvious—raised platforms of stone and flame. Others are quieter, constructed in systems, reputations, loyalties, and assumptions. Lent is a season of holy examination. It calls us to look closely at what we have built, what we defend, and what we trust. In this series, we conduct an audit—not of budgets or buildings, but of allegiances. Lent strips away every false altar until only Christ remains.

Image: AI-generated using DALL·E and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “ALTAR AUDIT, part 10: The Altar of Preference” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 10: The Altar of Preference. It’s easy to hear “blessed are the poor” and quietly translate it into something more comfortable—something spiritual, something distant, something we can agree with without changing much. But Luke doesn’t give us that distance. He places Jesus on level ground, among the people, where these words land differently.

What we often call the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew’s Gospel appears differently in Luke. Here, it is known as the Sermon on the Plain. And that difference is not incidental. In Matthew, Jesus goes up the mountain, sits, and teaches his disciples. In Luke, Jesus comes down, stands on level ground, and speaks among a large crowd—disciples, the sick, the poor, the desperate, all gathered together. What is said here is not abstract or removed—it is social, embodied, and immediate.

And even the words themselves shift. In Matthew, the blessing is for the “poor in spirit.” In Luke, it is simply the poor. Not a category that could be internalized or spiritualized, but a reality standing right in front of them. A reality standing in front of us all.

“Blessed are you who are poor… Woe to you who are rich.”

There is no softening here. No easy reframing that lets us keep everything exactly as it is. This is not an abstract principle. It is a reordering, and it cuts directly against the way we operate. Why? Because we do not build around the poor.

We serve them. We support them. We minister to them. We create programs, organize drives, and mobilize volunteers. Much of this is necessary. Much of it is good. People rely on it. It matters.

But it is also worth asking what kind of world our systems are actually forming.

We don’t reject the poor…we just build systems around them. We tell them who they are and what they need.

They are not the center. They are the recipients.

And over time, that distinction begins to matter more than we realize.

Because what we call ministry can slowly become preference. Not maliciously. Not intentionally. But structurally. We build in ways that are sustainable for us, manageable for us, comfortable for us. We decide what is possible, what is realistic, what is wise. Who fits the mold enough to be helped, and just what help we can give.

And in doing so, we may never notice that the system itself remains untouched.

Or worse—what we build around the “least of these” can quietly become part of the prison.

Not liberation. Not the release proclaimed in Luke 4. But a managed, contained version of care that keeps everything functioning just well enough to continue as it is.

Jesus does something different.

Jesus heals who is in front of him. Jesus feeds who is hungry. Jesus restores who is broken. But Jesus also announces a Kingdom that does not simply patch the existing system—it overturns it. The poor are not recipients in that Kingdom. They are centered. Blessed, not because poverty is good, but because God’s reign is breaking in among those the world has pushed aside.

That is the inversion.

And it exposes something deeper in us.

Preference is not always about what we like. It is about what we are willing to reorganize our lives around. It is about who we place at the center—and who we keep at the edges, even while serving them.

Even in the Church.

Especially in the Church.

This is not a call to abandon the work we are doing. It is a call to examine the structure in which we are doing it. To ask whether our ministry reflects the Kingdom Jesus proclaims—or simply makes the current world more bearable.

Because one sustains.

The other transforms.

And those are not the same thing.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The Kingdom of God does not ask us to serve the poor from a distance—it calls us to rebuild the world with them at the center.

PRAYER
God, open our eyes to the ways we have mistaken preference for faithfulness. Give us courage to see clearly, humility to listen deeply, and wisdom to build differently. Reorder our lives, our churches, and our systems so that they reflect your Kingdom—not our comfort. Lead us from maintenance into transformation. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).